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STANDARD DISCLAIMER ===================
The following piece of fiction is intended as ADULT entertainment and
has been posted only to an appropriate group on the Internet. If it
is found in any other place this is not the responsibility of the
author.
The author explicitly prohibits.
1) The posting of this story in an incomplete form.
2) The use of this story in a larger work without his express
permission.
3) The use of this story on any CD, BBS or Website without the
written permission of the author.
This work is copyright TM Quin 1999.
All characters in this story are fictitious, any similarity to
persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The author does not
necessarily condone or endorse any of the activities detailed in this
story, some of which are dangerous or illegal.
Quin 1999 tmquin@ibm.net
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Magus By Quin
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Prologue: "Introducing the Artist"
==================================
Do you know the second most frequent question I'm asked? No? I'll give you a clue, my favorite color is the fifth most frequent question. Still can't guess? It's "Oh Mr. Magus what do YOU collect?"
They are talking art of course. Asking an artist what art he collects is basically the same question as asking a singer what music he listens to or asking a movie star what actors he "admires." It's stupid, lame, tabloid pap and the most meaningful question your average celebrity interviewer can think up with the two brain cells at their disposal. I give them the answer they want to hear of course, watching their eyes glaze over when I talk about Cezane or Monet. I sometimes get a spark of interest when I mention Leonardo, but that soon disappears when they realize I'm talking DaVinci and not DiCaprio.
Yes they smile their plastic Hollywood smiles, nod when they think they should, and generally try to act comfortable with someone they don't understand at all. Oh I get the occasional good interview, Barbara Walters for one and of course the nice little girl from Time but most have no idea how to handle the Artist as Superstar. No experience you see. No one before me they can relate to. Oh yes there was Warhol and I suppose Picasso and Dahli might be said to be celebrities but in all honesty they were limited creatures hardly up to the comparison. My only peers, the only ones I view as equals are the great masters of the Italian Renaissance, Donatello, Michaelangelo, Raphell and of course Leonardo and yes at least one interviewer thought I was talking about Mutant Turtles.
More than once I've been tempted talk about my real collection, the one that takes up the majority of my time and attention, if only to shake the fake smile off of some of those faces. Of course that would be stupid, no amount of money can protect you from charges of kidnapping, rape and murder and I like my lifestyle too much to trade it for a prison cell. Still, perhaps I should share the story with these few pages and let history be my judge.
Where to begin? The need to create art has gripped me for as long as I can remember. My earliest memory is of sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor looking a print of Leonardo's Last Supper in some book of my moms. It was a poor reproduction, insignificant compared to the majesty of the original, but I soon became drunk on it, worshipping at the foot of the master. I actually wrote him a letter, Leonardo I mean, telling him just how pretty his picture was. Imagine my disappointment when I discovered I was three hundred years too late.
Still the die was set. I read all I could, studied techniques from every artistic school, each discipline, working every hour I could to try to approach the mastery that those great artists had found so easy. I didn't limit my education to art either, the renaissance believed that for a man to be the master of any discipline he must have a good knowledge of all. Dead languages like Greek and Latin competed for my attention with French, Spanish and Italian. Science and medicine didn't escape my attention either and I soon had a working knowledge of at least a dozen fringe subjects. I found it strangely easy, as if in some way those long dead masters were guiding my destiny.
Art school was disappointing, basically a factory for commercial artists. I dropped out after the first year earning what I could from occasional magazine work and making posters for local rock bands. Yes I starved, that is part of the modern artistic experience, but finally the breaks started to come. I had a limited success with a small exhibition in a local gallery. I didn't make much, certainly not as much as I later discovered the owner had made, but it got me noticed by a few serious collectors. Then a band I did some work for made the big time. The look of their posters had become such a part of their image that they asked me to come along. What a great time that was! I designed everything, posters, album covers, advertisements, tee-shirts, stage costumes even the stage sets themselves. When the first videos came out I did the design for those as well and soon after I found myself directing the second video too.
Soon I was getting other offers, even design work for movies, at some stage someone called me Magus -- a magician, a wise man, a seer and worker of miracles. I gratefully accepted the mantel, taking my place amongst that group of celebrities who only need one name. Before long I had made my first million and when I started designing fabrics for the leading fashion houses the money really started to roll in. Soon I was living in my own castle in Beverly Hills, complete with my own band of groupies, hangers on and acolytes. You may wonder why I would surround myself with such people? The answer was simple. On the road with the rock band I had seen how useful such people can be. They are your bondsmen you see, owing everything to you. Their access to drugs, girls and the good life is directly in your gift, capable of being snatched away at a whim and they understand this. Greedy and desperate there is nothing they won't do to remain in your favor. Exactly the army you need when you want to do something a little illegal.......
The idea of starting a collection of sex slaves had started back in the hungry years, a reaction to the sneering looks I got from salesgirls and waitresses, and the not so polite refusals of some of the women I had wanted to date. The irony was that now those same women would be more than happy to hang out with me, more than happy to share in the celebrity lifestyle and parties. So my sights moved on to women who would not want to be in my company of their own free will. To house my Collection I prepared five soundproofed cells in the basement of my mansion together with a very special "studio" in which I would work with my captives using their unwilling bodies as the raw material for my art. When all was in readiness I started to look around for suitable candidates. Soon however my first "piece" decided to volunteer herself.
When I say "volunteered" I don't mean that she came up and offered herself to me. No, given the choice little Nancy would rather be anywhere than in my tender care. What Nancy did was open her big Australian mouth at precisely the wrong moment.
It happened during my first tour of Australia. I was there to open a few exhibitions, do a few interviews and some sketches for a bronze statue of a former Prime Minister called Bob Hawke. I don't know if old Bob was popular or not, I don't keep up with Australian politics, but it certainly got us a lot of attention. Huge crowds gathered everywhere we went and my bodyguard, Tiny, had a lot on his plate just keeping me safe.
We were attending some gala bash at the Sidney Art Center when it happened. An egg thrown from the crowd whizzed past my ear. I never saw who threw it but I knew where it came from. Glancing over in that direction I saw a group I first took to be a biker gang. They had that look all long hair and leather. Most, male and female alike were immediately forgettable but there was one that immediately grabbed my attention. Long blonde hair framed a strong angular face with a high forehead and finely sculptured cheekbones. Large blue-green eyes peeked out above a long straight nose and full pouty mouth. That mouth opened and yelled abuse most of which I missed as I was letting my eyes work their way down over her body to her long muscular legs. When I did snap back to what she was screaming I picked out "talentless bastard" and "you posing git." Before I could react further, and probably fearing that something more substantial than eggs might be thrown next, Tiny pushed me firmly inside.
I accepted the warm handshakes from the gathered dignitaries but rather than allowing myself to be led away I excused myself and stood to one side near a window watching the blonde as she yelled at the later guests. She seemed a real rabble-rouser, just the kind of girl who I could imagine would take some breaking. Without being too obvious I summoned my entourage to me.
Weasel is a thoroughly unpleasant type, a nasty slimy little man who somehow invited himself into my household. I keep him around because he can fix things, anything you want he can get from drugs to guns no questions asked. Weasel likes my money but he likes my access to women even more. He kinda acts like a taster, sampling all the fruits that are offered to me and ensuring that only the best ends up in my bed. He is singularly dedicated and his physical repulsiveness ensures that only the really commited groupies make it through my doors. Yes, Weasel had seemed perfect for the job. I pointed out our little blonde friend and asked him to find out who she was. In addition I gave him a little shopping list of things we would need if we were to keep our new friend comfortable. Leering he nodded and then sneaked outside in pursuit.
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